


A Person, Not A Crypt

by SunMoonAndSpoon



Category: Fruits Basket
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25127269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunMoonAndSpoon/pseuds/SunMoonAndSpoon
Summary: "I wanted to write about something I actually felt - to understand how I actually felt about burning down my own life in Ren’s bed - and I came up with formulaic fluff. My readers keep telling me that I’ve unlocked a part of their souls with my words. My own soul, if it exists, is as brittle and hollow as a cicada shell."Ayame and Hatori try to be supportive by visiting Shigure at a book signing that takes place just after Akito threw him out.
Kudos: 12





	A Person, Not A Crypt

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally published as part of the Good Times Furuba Zine.

I’ve been signing books for four hours now, and I hate it.    
  
It’s great that the first book in my new series is selling well enough to warrant a book signing - it means that I’ll be able to make some much needed repairs on my new house - but that doesn’t make the process enjoyable.

My problem is partly physical: the chair I’m sitting in is impossible to get comfortable in, and the overhead lights are burning holes in my eyes. Leaning into my bodily discomfort is actually a good distraction from my more nebulous emotional concerns.    
  
A customer - a woman in a pink gingham dress, with short dark hair like Akito’s - just told me that my book is the greatest thing she’s ever read in her life. Her eyes are sparkling with purpose, and she’s clutching the book as if it’s her firstborn child. 

I smile and tell her that I’m overjoyed to have her as a fan, and she seems happy enough with the interaction. This happens over and over again, and I start feeling like I’m getting a heat rash.    
  
Compliments are only nice when you’re proud of your own work. I’m not proud of this. I wanted to write about something I actually felt - to  _ understand  _ how I actually felt about burning down my own life in Ren’s bed - and I came up with formulaic fluff. My readers keep telling me that I’ve unlocked a part of their souls with my words. My own soul, if it exists, is as brittle and hollow as a cicada shell.   
  


Yet another customer steps forward in line, and I see Ayame and Hatori - my two best friends, who understand me only slightly more than my readers do - waiting in line with copies of my book in their hands. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m so excited I feel like I could sprout wings and fly!” Ayame points upwards with a sweeping gesture. “Not even the ceiling could stop me!”

“Sprouting wings is a much bigger barrier than the fact that we’re inside. You could go outside. You can’t be reborn as Kureno.” Hatori steps forward in line. Ayame hustles after him, then stops short when he appears to realize that if he doesn’t slow down he’s going to crash into the person ahead of him in line. He puts his hands on his hips and laughs. 

  
“I want you to know that I have no intention of actually reading this,” says Hatori, placing his copy onto the table. “I bought it because we’re family and I want to support you, not because I’m interested in reading this...” He pauses and wrinkles his nose. “Material.”   
  
I’m about to make a joke about how he might enjoy it more in a private setting, but Ayame is shouting before I can start.    
  
“Well, I for one am  _ very  _ interested in the sensual masterpiece that you’ve been laboring over for oh so very long!” Ayame presses one hand to his chest and flings the other one outward. “I have big plans for my first read. I’m going to fill my bathtub with scented oils and rose petals, turn off all the lights and read by candlelight, while sipping a glass of the finest  Chardonnay. I will read the most salacious parts aloud, so that my gorgeous voice can bring it to life!”   
  
“Let me know exactly which day you’ll be doing that so that I can be on hand to save you when you drown in the bathtub,” says Hatori, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Ayame responds by crossing his arms and howling with laughter. 

“Gure-san, I’m truly so proud of you!” says Ayame once he gets himself under control.    
  
“It’s not actually a very good book,” I say, flipping through it with a frown. “It’s just some nonsense I threw together to take care of the bills after Akito threw me out. There’s no heart in it. My other writing is better.” 

“The fact that you can ‘throw together’ an entire novel speaks to your skill,” says Hatori. “People seem to like it, too.”   
  
“Haa-san, you’ve told me at least 45 times that you think it’s trash, and you’ve only read a few pages,” I say with a laugh.    
  
Hatori’s whole face turns into crumpled red paper. “I just meant the content, not the style,” he says.    
  
He’d had no problem insulting my work before, but now that I’m saying the same thing, he can’t stand it.    
  
“Awww, you want me to be confident in my work! Aya, look, he wants me to like myself, isn’t that cute?”   
  
Still red-faced, Hatori slaps down his copy of the book. “Of course I want you to be confident. I might not understand what you’ve done - or you, really - but I respect your work ethic and I respect you. Now sign my book before the guy tapping his foot behind me has an aneurysm.” 

The guy behind them actually looks pretty calm, but I decide to let that go. 

“Of course,” I say, taking his book and scribbling a picture of a dog next to my name that doesn’t appear on any of the regular customers’ copies.    
  
Ayame spots it and jabs Hatori in the side with his elbow. “Look how cute that is!” he squeals.    
  
“Woof woof,” I say, drawing a dog in high heels and a feather boa on Ayame’s book.    
  
Neither Hatori nor Ayame understands me, and neither do my readers and neither do I. But they love me, and right now that feels like all I need to write something that reveals myself to all of us. It feels like proof that I’m a person, not a crypt. 

“Gure-san, give the dog lipstick, he has to look sexier,” says Ayame, grabbing the pen from my hand. Hatori rolls his eyes and tells him that he’s holding up the line.    
  
“Thanks for coming,” I say. The smile stretched across my face does not feel fake in the slightest. 


End file.
